As they enter the vilge, Hubert rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Sir, something feels off here.”

  Henwell replies calmly, “It’s none of our business. We’re just passing through. Don’t act like we’re walking into a trap. We’re the ones they should be wary of.”

  With that, Henwell gently pats his Night Charger and continues deeper into the vilge.

  After circling the vilge, Henwell and his group don’t choose to stay at the inn. Instead, they rent several houses on the vilge’s outskirts to rest.

  Orak accompanies Henwell to buy supplies. Watching the friendly gnces and occasional respectful greetings from vilgers on the street, he senses something unusual.

  They’ve passed through many vilges on the way, but only this one feels different.

  In other pces, vilgers avoid the finely armored members of the westbound group.

  Their eyes show fear, and they don’t dare greet Henwell and his companions.

  Here, however, the vilgers actively salute and greet them.

  Orak remarks, “They act like they’re in a street of Silver Peak City! The vilgers here must have a decent upbringing.”

  Deputy Waintu adds, “Maybe seeing so many merchant caravans passing through has taught them good manners.”

  Henwell shakes his head. “They already knew these customs. It’s not something they learned here. These vilgers likely have complicated pasts. They might be refugees or people hiding from pursuers.”

  Henwell doesn’t lower his voice, drawing the attention of many on the street.

  He ignores the shift in their expressions—from friendly to wary, even hostile.

  After purchasing supplies, Henwell has them delivered to their rented houses.

  He then leads the group to the vilge’s only tavern.

  The tavern is surprisingly rge, even bigger than many central inns in towns.

  Henwell scans the area outside the door, confirming one thing.

  This entire vilge actually formed around the tavern, gradually developing over time.

  Henwell then pushes open the tavern door.

  As he and his knights step inside, most of the patrons turn their gaze toward them.

  But after a quick gnce, they immediately look away.

  Henwell surveys the tavern’s interior.

  It’s spacious—over six hundred square meters.

  In the center stands a small stage, where two women dressed in sheer fabrics and wearing masks perform a provocative dance that quickens the blood.

  On either side of the tavern are firepces.

  About ten meters behind the stage is the bar, where the bartender focuses intently on mixing drinks.

  To the left is the food counter; dishes from the kitchen are pced there before being served to tables by waitresses.

  On the right, a gambling table buzzes with activity. It’s the liveliest spot besides the dancers’ stage, with over a dozen people shouting and gring with bloodshot eyes.

  Scattered irregurly throughout the rest of the space are a dozen or so tables, most occupied.

  A beautiful waitress approaches, smiling and speaking fluent Common: “Welcome to Peace Tavern, honored guests! How may I assist you?”

  Henwell replies, “Find us a table and bring your specialty dishes.”

  The waitress leads Henwell and his group to a table and then goes to prepare their order.

  Henwell gnces toward the gamblers on his left.

  One burly, shirtless man covered in scars shouts hoarsely.

  Apparently frustrated by a lost bet, he curses loudly and even shoots Henwell a gre, as if Henwell’s mere gnce brought him bad luck.

  Henwell stands and walks over to the gambling table.

  The crowd immediately parts; they notice his armor and realize he’s not someone to mess with.

  At a companion’s signal, the other gamblers quickly rise, stepping back.

  Nearby, the scarred man grumbles in a low voice, “What do you want? Looking for a fight?”

  Henwell ignores him, pulls out an unoccupied chair, and sits down.

  He addresses the dealer, “How do you py?”

  The dealer reveals a set of gambling tiles resembling pai gow and proceeds to expin the rules to Henwell.

  Henwell raises his hand, and Hubert hands over a pouch of gold coins.

  Henwell pulls out a handful and asks, “What’s the minimum bet?”

  The dealer grins, eyeing the shining coins. “Minimum one gold coin, maximum ten.”

  Henwell pces ten gold coins on the table. “Let’s py a few rounds then.”

  The dealer is skilled, clearly experienced in gambling.

  Before long, Henwell loses over a hundred gold coins.

  This draws a crowd of onlookers who quickly realize Henwell isn’t good at the game.

  They start pcing side bets on the dealer’s victory.

  Every time Henwell loses, the crowd cheers.

  After a few more rounds, Henwell’s pouch is empty.

  The dealer advises, “Sir, you’re still learning this game. Maybe don’t bet so high just yet.”

  Henwell smiles. “I’ll eat first, then come back to py.”

  He returns to the table and samples the tavern’s dishes.

  Not exquisite, but they have their own charm.

  After finishing quickly, Henwell grabs a bottle of fruit wine and heads back to the gambling table.

  Seeing the “moneybag” return, someone immediately offers him a seat.

  Orak and two others join as well, and three more seats open up.

  Only Orak sits down; Hubert and Waintu stand behind them.

  Unlike Henwell, Orak wins nearly every round.

  Soon, the dealer is sweating, unsure how to handle the streak.

  After a while, an old man drinking at the bar approaches the table.

  The dealer quickly yields his seat to him.

  The old man sizes up Orak and Henwell.

  “No need to toy with us little folks, gentlemen.”

  Henwell smiles. “Little folks? Not necessarily. Looking for a game?”

  The old man taps the table. “Since you’re interested, I’ll py a few rounds with you. Win or lose doesn’t matter, as long as you enjoy yourselves.”

  The bartender brings out a pte piled with a thousand gold coins.

  Henwell chuckles. “Quite the bankroll. Pnning to scare us off?”

  Orak pulls out a gem, flicks it precisely onto the table in front of the old man.

  “That’s worth something, right?”

  The old man picks up the deep blue gem, impressed. “Good stuff! Worth a lot—no less than a thousand gold coins.”

  Henwell nods. “Then let’s begin.”

  The old man wins the first five rounds, but then starts losing.

  By now, several people sit at the table, two look like caravan members, another dressed as a ranger.

  The scarred man from before is here too.

  The money grows rger and rger, catching the attention of most patrons in the tavern.